


Brother Mine

by SeaweedWrites



Series: East Wind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Death, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Morning After, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: This is the first story in my 'East Wind' Universe.It goes AU after "The Reichenbach Fall"  And it deals with the premise of 'What if Sherlock really DID die when he jumped off of St. Barts roof?'Each story will deal with one character's thoughts and feelings. This story is Mycroft Holmes'.Mycroft is called out to St. Barts to deal with his little brother. But he had no idea what is waiting for him when he gets to the hospital.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea a while ago to write in a bit of an alternative time line. This story deviates at the end of “The Reichenbach Fall”. And it all starts with the premise of 'What if Sherlock really did die?'
> 
>  
> 
> My idea is to write different stories in this universe dealing with the immediate aftermath of Sherlock jumping from the stop of St. Barts. Each story will be told from the perspective of a different character, and it will be different moments in time, so I wont overlap and repeat. 
> 
>  
> 
> It may change but for now, all the stories will be set in the time from right after the fall until shortly after the funeral,
> 
>  
> 
> So I am calling this my 'East Wind' Universe, and all the fics that are written in it will be marked that they are a part of it. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is the first of my 'East Wind' fics. It's from Mycroft Holmes' perspective. He's called out of the office to deal with his little brother. But he has no idea what is waiting for him when he gets to the hospital. 
> 
>  
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE:  
> As far as I could fairly quickly research, the information about what happens with a recently deceased body- livor mortis, rigor mortis, blood, and body temperature, and how one falls is correct. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also the distances from 221B Baker Street and the SIS (also known as the MI6) Building- they both actually are 13 minutes with light traffic from St. Bartholomew Hospital (St. Barts). That was a nice coincidence. I figured that Mycroft would have his office at MI6.

Anthea looked slightly pale when she knocked on his office door- twice like she always did, then opened the door softly. “Sir, you are needed at St. Barts.”

 

Mycroft nodded her in, and she stepped just inside the partially opened doorway. For just a split second, a brief moment in time, she saw the worry that crossed his face. “My brother, I assume?”

 

“Yes, sir. I was given no details.” She knew that her boss was extraordinarily perceptive, and if he ever found out that she knew more than she was letting on, being fired may be the least of her worries. But it wouldn't make things any better by telling him what she did know. So she stayed quiet and tried to keep a poker face. He had taught her well how to do so. But that meant that he also knew what to look for and how to see through it. 

 

Mycroft stared at her, studied her deeply. It was only for a few seconds, but it was enough for him to take her all in. There was something that she wasn't saying. She was slightly pale, her eyes were dilated, and she was breathing just slightly faster than normal. Even with all of this information, he filed it away. He could ask about it later. He WOULD ask about it later. However, if his little brother needed him right now, then whatever she was withholding from him would have to wait. 

 

“The car is ready, sir.”

 

“Thank you.” It only took Mycroft a moment to gather his jacket and umbrella. Anthea followed him through the maze of offices and out to the car. She held the car door open, but this time she was not joining him. He hadn't had to tell her. She could see it in his eyes. She was holding something back, and his trust in her was wavering. Whatever was going on, he was going to do this on his own. She closed the door, and the driver sped off a moment later. 

 

Anthea let out a long sigh. This was going to be bad. 

 

All of it. 

 

While in the car, Mycroft mused about the route that they were taking. The distance from the SIS building to St. Barts was exactly the same as from 221B Baker Street to the hospital- 13 minutes with light traffic. It was fairly early in the day- past the morning rush hour, but before lunch. The traffic was moderate, and yet they had been traveling nearly 15 minutes and hadn't arrived yet. 

 

“Faster. I don't care if there are red lights.” Mycroft's body pressed back slightly against the seat as the car accelerated. 

 

It only took them a couple of minutes to take the lasts few turns into St. Barts. As soon as they turned the corner, he saw a large contingent of police cars, and blue and white barricade tape around part of the sidewalk. 

 

Mycroft could feel his stomach drop. This was not a normal overdose. Something bad had happened. 

 

Something very bad. 

 

The car had only just come to a stop. He didn't even wait for the driver to come around to the door. Mycroft jumped out of the car and walked as fast as he could towards the police. He hadn't gotten very far when D.I. Lestrade met him. 

 

“Mr. Holmes, sir. I think you might ought to wait here. We are still getting witness statements and...” 

 

He didn't get to finish the thought. The wrathful, withering look that Mycroft Holmes gave him was enough to let him know that he would be stopped over both of their dead bodies. Mycroft pushed past Lestrade and strode on, with Lestrade trotting to catch up behind him. 

 

“Sir, please.” Lestrade still tried to at least slow him down. All he managed to do was to make Mycroft more anxious and frustrated, and he quickened his pace. 

 

That is, until he rounded a police car and saw John Watson, sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, covered in an orange shock blanket. His mind flashed back to what seemed like a million years ago.

 

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.”

 

This was almost exactly like that night that Mycroft had seen Sherlock and John working together for the first time. Sherlock had been sitting on the edge of an ambulance, a shock blanket around his shoulder.

 

“I'm not in shock.”

 

No. This was different. 

 

John Watson was in shock. It was easy to tell. He was deathly pale. There was a sheen of sweat, plastering his bangs to his forehead, and his breathing was short and quick. 

 

Mycroft's sudden stop caused Lestrade to bump him slightly. He mumbled an apology, but for once Mycroft said nothing. 

 

“John.” The simple word shocked John back from wherever his mind had been wandering. He looked up at the elder Holmes. His eyes were sunken and red. 

 

“Mycroft. Sherlock.. he....” His voice trailed off 

 

He furrowed his brow. “What happened to my little brother?” He was tired of all this dancing around. No one was telling him that the hell was going on. The frustration was evident as he spoke- loud and clear and firm. “Where. Is. Sherlock. Holmes?”

 

There was a noticeable sigh of relief from John when Lestrade answered. John closed his eyes as the Detective Inspector spoke. Hearing it again was bad enough, but he couldn't bear to see the pain in Mycroft's eyes.

 

“He...” The man gulped and took a deep breath. “He.. jumped from the top of St. Barts. He hit his head. The paramedics said he would have... died instantly. Most likely he felt no pain.”

 

One heartbeat.

 

Then a second.

 

And a third. 

 

And then, just 4 words, barely over a whisper.

 

“Take me to him.”

 

Mycroft had been to the morgue enough times. He knew which way they were heading Of course, its obvious that they would go to the morgue if Sherlock was... 

 

NO. 

 

He wouldn't say it. 

 

Maybe it was just his own pathetic wishful thinking that he would be led elsewhere, but it was crystal clear where their ultimate destination lie. 

 

Lestrade led the way in. The morgue was always cold, but it seemed to have a particularly chilly bite this day. There was one long black plastic bag on one table in the very middle of the cavernous, empty room. Beside it was Molly Hooper, red eyed and sniffling. She was trying so hard to be professional, but it was easy to tell that she was utterly broken. 

 

After Lestrade came John, who stopped, his breath caught in his throat. He had seen Sherlock on the pavement, but he had been whisked away so quickly. It had almost seemed like it was just a nightmare that he would wake up from. But a body bag...

 

Finally, after the briefest of pauses, Mycroft walked in. Unlike the other two who stopped just inside the door, he kept walking. He knew that if he stopped, he wouldn't be able to start again. His legs felt like lead, he had to drag them along to slog forward. It seemed as if he was walking in slow motion. Did it take him an hour to reach the center of the room? It sure seemed like it. He continued past Lestrade, and John, not stopping until he reached the table. When he did, Molly silently moved away, giving him space.

 

His hand shook visibly when he grasped that cold metal zipper. He hesitated, just for a moment, but he knew that he had to do it now or he'd lose his nerve.

 

Mycroft Holmes NEVER lost his nerve. 

 

In one swift movement, before he could stop himself, he pulled the zipper down halfway, to the waist, and then took half a step back. 

 

The hair was matted with blood,, the face and skull were shattered in several places. It would have been nearly impossible for anyone else to identify him. 

 

But not Mycroft. 

 

Even without seeing the birthmark on his upper hip, he knew who it was. This was Sherlock. 

 

He took a moment to compose himself and took a deep breath, then turned to the others. “Give me a moment with my brother, please.” Slowly, sadly, they trudged out the door. 

 

It was only when he was sure that they had put some distance between themselves and the door that he turned back to the table.

 

“Oh, William.” He didn't even try to hide the quiver in his voice any more. “What did you do?” 

 

It had been quite a long time since anyone had used Sherlock's given name. When they were children, and Sherlock would act up, or say something mean to a friend or family member while he deduced something about them, his mother would use it. As they became young adults, and were starting their own separate lives, Mycroft took up the habit on the few occasions that they would actually be in the same room together, and Sherlock would decide to be particularly bratty. But as they moved into adulthood, it became less and less frequent. His parents hadn't used it in decades, and Mycroft hadn't said his given name in almost a dozen years. It sounded so foreign coming off his tongue, and yet he had said it by instinct. It hadn't even registered that he had used it until after he had spoken.

 

Without even thinking about the messy repercussions, Mycroft reached his hand down and gently pulled those bloody curls out of his face. The blood wasn't warm any more, but it hadn't totally coagulated and dried either. Ever so gently, he touched Sherlock's wrist. His skin was cool on his wrists, but his torso was still warm. There was no liver mortis, or rigor mortis yet, so he had been dead less than 2 hours, but more than 30 minutes. 

 

Reluctantly, he unzipped the bag all the way. This was really much more than he had ever wanted to see of his little brother, but he had to continue his investigation. His right hand and knee had extensive damage. There were clearly shattered bones in both, which meant that he had probably twisted in mid fall to get into a better landing position and hadn't made it in time. He had fallen on his right hand side, where all the damage was to his head as well. 

 

Bile rose up in Mycroft's throat, and he quickly zipped the bag up again, so that only the head was still visible. That was enough. He couldn't take any more of this. These deductions were ripping him apart. He turned away from the body and swallowed hard until the brief nausea spell passed. 

 

When he had composed himself, he turned back around and put his bloody hand on Sherlock's head once again. 

 

“Sherlock, I don't know why you did what you did, but you broke a lot of hearts today. Mummy and Father will be beside themselves. And John, I'm not sure how he'll take it He's still in shock. I hope you had a damn good reason., because I am not sure that any of us will ever forgive you.” He was slightly surprised at the anger that had risen in his voice. He took a deep breath and calmed himself down.

 

With the gentlest touch, Mycroft ran his fingers through his little brother's hair one last time, then slowly, he drew his hand away. 

 

“Sleep well, brother mine. The East Wind took you far too soon.”


End file.
